Since Sherlock was gone
by coliveira
Summary: John couldn't simply understand why his best friend wouldn't tell him he was not dead. Could Sherlock possibly have a good explanation? P.S.: please note English is not my native language, even if I did a great effort to write properly.
1. The dream

Since Sherlock was gone

John was sitting on a bench, breathing the cold, perfumed air of an autumn morning. Apparently, that was a day like every other. Behind him, the sounds of the chaotic Londoner traffic could be heard. The weather, the noise, the garden surrounding him, well, _everything_ reminded him of a day with Sherlock, a long time ago, watching a Buckingham palace guard, trying to avoid his murder.

Now, however, there were no killers to arrest, no crimes to solve, no clues to be followed. There was just John and his abruptly mad anger. He was straining to keep calm very hard, and so his hands were almost shaking.

'Sherlock', he pronounced, with a fake neutral voice. 'We need to talk. Seriously.'

He risked a glance to the man at his side. Sherlock was so pure as he had always been, with dark hair, deep blue eyes and a pale face. His smile was so gentle and innocent that John's fury vanished, making him feel bad instead for such bad ideas.

'I just want to know… Please, explain me…'

'Yes?', asked Sherlock curiously. His icy eyes were fixed upon John.

'Why didn't… Why couldn't…'

John was trapped between the impulse of hugging his best friend and the urge of reprimanding him.

'Why didn't you just tell me?'

Sherlock looked at him, astonished.

'Didn't told you what?'

A short silence fell over them, making the songs of some birds audible.

'That you were not dead.'

Sherlock stared at John for a while, contemplative, as doing a deduction; or perhaps, John thought, he was just trying to figure out a very clever answer.

'How could I lie to you, John?'

Sherlock voice pronouncing his name made Watson raise his head.

'Sorry?'

'How many times will I have to tell you?' Sherlock didn't seem anxious or irritated. He was talking patiently, as repeating some unpleasant, unavoidable thing to a child. 'It was truth. It all. I _am_ dead.'

John opened his eyes and the roof of his bedroom at 221 Baker Street appeared. His face was wet, probably with tears. The army doctor had seen a lot of tragedies, totally insignificant when compared to the personal misfortune he was facing.

Still very dismayed, John went downstairs, quietly. The last thing he wanted was Mrs. Hudson wondering about his nightmares, in the flat below. Nightmares? No… Dreams, the most beautiful ones, dreams where Sherlock was alive, talking to him, grinning. He wished so badly to come back to those illusions. He would even give all the vain, hollow days since his best friend death in exchange for a single minute with Sherlock.

Sherlock's violin was laid on the armchair where he always liked to seat. John simply hadn't the courage for touching it, trying at all costs not to erase one of the rare signs that Sherlock had once been real – the fingerprints against the red, brown colored instrument. Tears were rushing down his face, and John didn't take a move to clean it – he knew his pain was so strong it would always overwhelm him.

'Sherlock', he cried, his voice sounding so lonely throughout the empty house. 'Please. One more miracle. For me. Please, _don't be dead_…'

But the only answer for these words was a small echo effect and the rain against the windows, making John understand that, without Sherlock, his all life was a dense mass of anguish and darkness.


	2. Waking up

Vague shadows projected on the walls of the flat. Sitting on a chair, John was trying to eat the meal Mrs. Hudson had prepared to him, but his anguish was so strong it seemed to tighten his stomach. In front of him, on the kitchen's table, was a calendar, used by John to mark every day since Sherlock's death. Initially, it was supposed to be a sign that he, John Watson, would be able to _move on._

In fact, judging by the appearance of the lines (which shown evident trembling), it's fair to say that John was a kind of survivor. He had already forgotten what the verb 'to live' truly meant. His days were nothing but an incredible, desperate struggle to keep his head above the water of the dark ocean his pain had become. Nevertheless, this ruthless sea was getting more and more raged, and John started to feel as sailing using a fragile boat. Definitively, he couldn't handle that much longer.

The night had fallen over Baker Street, covering the houses with its cloak of stars and clouds. It was time to mark one more miserable day living without Sherlock. However, John didn't dare to grab a pen, fearing he would simply pass out if he did so. The urge of sleeping came over him. He had been trying to avoid this, as he wasn't sure of being capable of dealing with one more vision of his friend. Such dreams were slowly taking advantage on him, forcing John to admit Sherlock was dead, and there was nothing he could do to change that.

He dropped his head on the kitchen's table. Perhaps if he fell asleep uncomfortably, his mind wouldn't create the simultaneously marvelous and harsh illusion he had been thinking about. His breath became deep and rhythmic. Instantly, his tiredness overwhelmed him.

John's plane didn't succeed. This time, he was in a place covered with grass. He recognized it immediately - the graveyard where Sherlock had been buried.

Watson bent his knees and looked at the gravestone showing Sherlock's name. Someone had left beautiful flowers near it. Everything, except John's heart, was peaceful and quiet. For a second, he wished to be with his friend, belonging to the soil under his feet. Why him? In a world full of cruel, wicked people, why did Sher had to die, with all his purity and intelligence? And why did John need to be left alone?

Suddenly, Sherlock appeared. He was dressing the long, gray coat he liked the most, the same one he used during the tragic day his life ended. Holding a violin against the shoulder, he began to play a sad melody. John took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

'I know this is a dream', he said, resigned. 'I know you are dead. After all, you told it to me at least a hundred times.'

Sherlock's image, a product from his imagination, stopped the music.

'I'm glad you finally accepted it.'

'I didn't say I've accepted it', John corrected, coldly. Sherlock stared at him.

'You know I had no choice but to jump, right?'

The question induced a very violent rage, which John had never experienced before.

'Course you had a choice, Sherlock!' He shouted, completely mad. 'You could HAVE CHOSEN ME!'

All his body started to shake. He wanted to scream, to hurt, to destroy everything around him. 'But no, you had to play the brilliant detective's role until the end, didn't you?'

Sherlock didn´t seem slightly afraid, just contemplative. Somehow, this irritated John even more.

'John, you are being unfair.'

Watson started to laugh, bitterly.

'Oh, am I the unfair guy right now? I didn't let you completely alone, living like a dog, did I, Sherlock? DID I?'

'I have chosen you, John.' Sherlock's voice was becoming strangely nearer. 'I thought you'd understand.'

John opened his eyes. A blizzard shone outside the window. And nothing could prepare the army doctor to the person who was expecting him.

'Sherlock', he whispered. He wasn't able to think. His heart began beating like it was the last opportunity to play its function.

'I have chosen you', Sherlock repeated, his deep voice kept unchanged. The moon light gave him the appearance of a lost angle. 'He would kill you if I didn´t jump. Moriarty.' He started to explain. 'But Mycroft was one step ahead. He kept me hidden…'

'Sherlock, shut up', ordered John. 'Just… shut up.'

A strange silence took control of the flat. John got up, wobbly, slowly. He started to walk towards Sherlock, trying not to start running.

Sherlock didn't move, unable to predict what attitude should be taken next.

John grabbed his coat and hugged him, with all the strength he found. The joy of seeing him alive surpassed all the disappointments, all the tears, all the sadness. If there was such a thing called happiness, John was now experiencing it. However, he couldn't avoid sobbing. When he finally took control of himself, it was like rising from the darkness.

'You came back. For me', John stated, still hugging Sherlock. He didn´t need to look to the pale face to say his friend was smiling.

Sherlock talked tenderly.

'I always will.'


End file.
